Always
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "Cosette adored her papa. She was always following along at his heels." Several chapters about Valjean and Cosette adjusting to their new life in the convent.
1. Sneaking Out

The summary for this story is taken almost verbatim out of the novel, from the chapter "Change of Gate," where Hugo writes, _Cosette adored that good man. She was always following at his heels._ Those lines, together with a song that I'll quote later, were the inspiration for this story. I've written a slightly AU story about Valjean and Cosette's time in the convent before, but this story will be an attempt to record their years there in canon. There will probably be several chapters.

Please enjoy, please review, and happy new year!

(For my own reference: 85th fanfiction, 17th story for _Les Miserables_.)

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><p><em>Au clair de la lune, Pierrot se rendort<br>Il rêve à la lune, son coeur bat très fort_  
>— <em>Au Clair de la lune,<em> French folk song

The fog hung like a cloud around them, so thick and humid that Valjean could barely see or breathe in it. Neither the lamp-posts on the Paris street nor stars in the sky were bright enough shine through the fog, making it impossible for him to get his bearings. It was a chilly night too, and Cosette was barefoot, wearing nothing but her nightdress. Even though Valjean had wrapped his own coat around her and was holding her close against his chest as he ran, still the girl shivered in his arms, cold and frightened. She would surely fall ill if he didn't find a warm, safe place for them to hide soon... but how would he ever find anything in this fog?

But Valjean ran on blindly, for he had no choice. Somewhere in the fog behind him, Javert was running after them, and he seemed to be getting closer. How was that even possible? Javert couldn't possibly see them through this fog. Yet Valjean could hear his voice still calling, "Valjean! 24601!" And just when Javert's footsteps sounded nearer, almost right on top of him, and it seemed certain that all was lost, that he would be captured and sent back to the galleys, never to see Cosette again, just then, Cosette wrapped both arms around his neck and whispered, "Papa, I need to use the toilet – _really _bad."

He shifted her in his arms and said quickly, panting from running so hard, "Not now, Cosette." But still she asked, "Papa? Papa?" and Javert shouted again, "24601!" It echoed eerily down the street, sending a shudder through Valjean. He ran faster, but then his foot suddenly caught on something – he couldn't see what – and he and Cosette were tumbling, falling...

"Papa? _Papa_!"

Valjean jerked awake with a gasp, sitting bolt upright. The dream had been so vivid, so _real_, that he was almost startled to find himself in bed, his legs twisted up in the blankets. His heart was still pounding, his brow beaded in sweat. He took a deep breath and leaned back against the wall, as if to reassure himself that it was actually there.

Cosette's voice came softly through the dark. "It's all right, Papa. It was only a bad dream," she said sweetly. She felt around on his bed for his hand, found it, and held it tight, as if _he_ were the child who need comforting. She added in a small voice, "I have them too, sometimes."

Valjean turned to Cosette – he could just see the outline of her in the darkness, standing beside his bed – and held out his arms. "Come here, my girl," he ordered gently. "Papa needs to hold you." Cosette obediently climbed into his bed, settling her small, warm body into his lap, and the lingering fear and panic of his dream quickly faded away. Valjean let out a sigh of relief as he wrapped his arms around Cosette. It was such a comfort to him to have her close, to know that she was safe and warm and well-fed, that he hadn't failed her. She snuggled up against him, her head over his heart, and for a moment, all seemed right with the world.

Then, from across the dark room, Valjean heard strange sounds – someone else shifting about in a bed, yawning, the noise of a match being struck, and then Fauchelevent's bewildered, bleary-eyed face appeared in the flickering orange light.

"What..." he began sleepily, half-awake, and then his eyes widened when they settled on Cosette in her papa's lap. "What on earth?" he asked, surprised. "What is the child doing here at this hour?"

And then Valjean awoke fully and realized that he and Cosette weren't in their old room at the Gorbeau House, as he first thought when he'd woken up. They were now in the Petit Picpus convent, where he and Fauchelevent lived in their little cottage in the garden, and Cosette was supposed to be asleep in her bed in the dormitory-room, on the second floor of the monastery, on the other side of the garden. How on earth could she have left her room, gone downstairs, exited the monastery, crossed the garden, and slipped inside their cottage without one of the sisters noticing? At least one of them was always awake at every hour to pray.

"Cosette," he said, suddenly alarmed, "what _are_ you doing here? How did you get out here?"

Cosette didn't lift her head from over his heart. "I opened the window next to my bed," she said calmly, "and climbed down the trellis. It was easy. Then I just walked across the garden and came in here, and you were having a bad dream."

Valjean's mouth actually fell open a bit. He put both hands on Cosette's shoulders and pulled her back from his chest to look her in the face. "Cosette, that was very naughty of you," he said sternly. "You know you aren't supposed to leave your room in the middle of the night, and climbing down the trellis was dangerous. You could've fallen and hurt yourself."

Cosette burst into tears. "I couldn't sleep," she wailed between her sobs. "I missed you putting me to bed."

Valjean sighed and wiped her face with the sleeve of his night-shirt. He missed putting Cosette to bed, too. When they'd lived in the Gorbeau House, Valjean had given her a bath, read her a bedtime story, listened to her say her prayers, tucked her into bed, and kissed her goodnight every single night. Sometimes she'd slept in his bed with him. Now, living in the convent, he missed putting her to bed more than he would've thought possible.

"Oh, I know, love," he said softly, pulling her close again and rocking her back and forth a bit. "I know it's hard." The two of them had been in the convent for only a week, which was why Valjean still sometimes forgot where he was when he woke up. Cosette probably still did too, and Valjean's heart ached to imagine her waking up in the dormitory-room from a nightmare of her own, not knowing right away where she was or why her papa wasn't right there to hold her.

"Can't you just come inside to kiss me goodnight?" Cosette begged him, still crying.

"Oh, sweetness, I wish I could, but you know I'm not allowed inside the monastery." He paused, trying to find a way to explain it to an eight-year-old. "It's... for girls only. Your Uncle Fauvent and I have to stay out here in the garden because we're boys. I know it's hard right now, but it'll get easier."

Fauchelevent had gotten out of his bed and dipped one of their little tin cups into the water-bucket on the floor. "Here, give her this," he said gruffly, holding it out to Valjean, who took it and passed it to Cosette. She was flushed from crying, and the water tasted so pleasantly cool that she drank the entire cup at once. It seemed to calm her. Valjean wiped her face again.

"Cosette, listen to me now. I don't want you to get into trouble, so I'm going to sneak you back into your room, all right? But you promise me to never do this again."

Cosette was silent for a moment, sniffling and thinking. Then she asked, "Do you promise it'll get easier?"

"Yes, darling, I promise. And I promise that you and I are going to spend time together every single day, always."

"Then I promise, too," Cosette agreed. "I promise I won't sneak out again."

"That's my good girl," Valjean praised, and he kissed her forehead. But when he stood up from his bed to take her back inside, Cosette looked panicked.

"Can we have quiet time first?" she begged. "Please? Just a little?" _Quiet time _was what Cosette called it when she wanted her papa to hold her, and Valjean had never once been able to say _no_ to her when she asked him for it.

"Of course we can," he answered softly, and he scooped her up into his arms. He held her and paced back-and-forth across the single room – like the parent of a crying infant might do – and stroked her hair. Her hair was always neatly brushed and tied back when he visited with her in the afternoons, but now it was loose and tousled from sleep. Valjean used to brush her hair out for her every morning, but here, he supposed that Cosette brushed it herself. He wasn't there when she woke up anymore, and sadness squeezed his heart again. He held Cosette tighter against him and realized that her body had gone limp in his arms.

"Would you look at that?" asked Fauchelevent, who had gotten up to stoke the embers in the fireplace, even though it was a warm night for autumn. "She's dropped right off, hasn't she?"

"Yes, she usually does when I hold her," Valjean said. He turned his head carefully to see Cosette's face; she was fast asleep against his shoulder, her lips curved upward in the hint of a smile, her cheeks dry of tears. He stroked her hair again. "I'd better get her back inside. I'm sorry she woke you up."

"Oh, it's no bother. She's such a sweet thing."

Outside, the convent garden looked so different in the darkness, but a full moon was hanging low in the Paris sky, casting enough light for Valjean to see by. He walked across the garden, still carrying Cosette, to the trellis that stood against one wall of the monastery. Cosette was right: climbing the trellis _was_ quite easy. It was so easy that Valjean could climb with only one arm, while holding her with his other arm, and in no time, he'd reached the second-floor window into the dormitory-room. It was still partially open, from when Cosette had snuck out.

Valjean stuck his head through the window and looked up and down the row of beds against the wall. The other little girls were all sleeping soundly, not one of them even stirring. He hesitated. He had agreed to not set foot inside the convent, but Cosette's bed was right there, just a few feet from the window. The sisters would never know. He took a deep breath and slipped inside as stealthily as he could.

Cosette stirred a bit as he laid her down in her bed. "Goodnight, Papa," she slurred, half-awake.

Valjean smiled, tucked the blankets around her, and kissed her cheek. "Goodnight, precious," he whispered into her ear. "Sweet dreams." And with that, he climbed silently out of the window, sliding it shut behind him, and back down the trellis. Once in his bed in the cottage again, he slept peacefully the rest of the night through, and so did Cosette, for he had tucked her in.


	2. Picking Apples

Many thanks to those of you who've reviewed this story. I would love to hear from a few more of you, if you have time. For clarification, this chapter is set about a week after the first one.

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><p><em>Through the summer and the fall, we had each other, that was all<em>  
><em>Just she and I together, like it was meant to be<em>  
>— Randy Newman, "When She Loved Me"<p>

The sun shone kindly above Paris, and all over the city, cathedral spires and stained-glasses windows glistened in its light. It was early fall, and even though there would soon be chilly evenings and frost on the grass in the mornings, for today, the warm weather lingered, as if summer had changed her mind and decided to stay in Paris, just a little longer. But though it was quite warm in the sunshine, in the Petit Picpus convent, tucked away in one corner of the garden, it was pleasantly cool beneath the shade of an apple tree. Its branches hung low, heavy with ripe apples, filling the air with the heady smell of amber spice.

Cosette's classes were over for the afternoon, and so she was in the garden with her papa. Since the two of them had arrived in the convent two weeks ago, Cosette had spent every second of her free time with him. Right now, she was sitting atop his shoulders beneath the apple tree, picking apples and handing them down to him, while she told him what she had done in school that day.

"...and then we all took a turn reading aloud from our books," she said. Her voice dropped. "I read much slower than all the other girls. I had to keep sounding out the words. I don't like reading aloud. I'm stupid."

Valjean's brow furrowed as he reached up to take another apple from her and add it to the bushel basket he was holding on his hip. "Who said you were stupid?" he asked sharply.

"Well... no one did," she confessed quietly, over the rustling leaves. "But I _felt_ stupid."

"You aren't stupid, Cosette," he said firmly. "I don't want to hear you call yourself that again, understand?"

"Yes, Papa," Cosette answered immediately. Her father rarely used that tone with her, and when he did, she knew that he really meant it.

"You aren't stupid," Valjean repeated, more gently. Cosette had learned to read only a few weeks ago. He'd taught her himself, when they'd still lived in the Gorbeau House. "You're just new here, and the other girls have all been reading for longer than you. You must be patient with yourself. Why, not that long ago, you didn't even know your letters, and now you're already reading whole sentences. You're smart to have learned so much so quickly." He patted her thigh next to his cheek, and she smiled as she tugged another apple from its branch.

Valjean paused to reflect. It was likely that the other girls Cosette's age had been reading for a few years already. Where had his Cosette been then, while they were learning their letters? She'd been scrubbing floors on her hands and knees, and stooping over a washtub to wash clothes, and doing all sorts of other heavy, hard work that little girls had no business doing.

Cosette interrupted his thoughts. "I still wish I could spend all day out here in the garden with you, Papa," she said longingly, "instead of going to classes."

Valjean patted her thigh again. "I wish you could too, sweetness," he said, and then he immediately regretted his words. Was it not selfish of him to wish for such a thing? Certainly, Cosette enjoyed sitting on his shoulders and picking apples on a crisp fall day, but neither the work nor the weather would always be so pleasant. There would be frigid winter mornings, and sweltering summer afternoons, and more hard, heavy chores that little girls had no business doing. His Cosette belonged inside, sheltered from the elements, practicing her spelling and arithmetic. Valjean added quickly, "But we must be content with what we have."

"What does _content_ mean?"

"Well, it means that we're happy with what God has given us, and we don't want more."

Cosette was silent for a moment, then Valjean felt her shift on his shoulders; she leaned down to lay her cheek on top of his head. "But... then I _am _content," she said suddenly. "I'm content because nobody else's papa is the gardener. I must be the luckiest girl in this whole convent, aren't I?"

Valjean smiled. "I think you are, precious."

They picked apples for a few minutes longer, until they had filled the basket. "I think that's enough apples for today, Cosette," Valjean said, setting it on the ground. "Why don't we have a little quiet time before you have to go back in?" He reached up and lifted Cosette from his shoulders. He shifted her in his arms until he was holding her against his chest.

"You know, darling," he said to her, "I've been thinking about that problem you've had falling asleep."

Cosette leaned her head against his shoulder. "Because you can't put me to bed anymore," she murmured sadly into his tunic.

"Yes, and I think I've come up with something that might help. Here, this is for you." He reached into his trousers pocket with his free hand, and Cosette blinked in surprise when she saw what he pulled from it and held out to her.

"Your handkerchief?" she asked, bewildered, taking it from him.

Valjean smiled. "It's yours now. Smell it." Cosette obeyed and drew the handkerchief close to her face. She closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. The handkerchief smelled of sweat and dirt, but it was the most wonderful smell in the world to Cosette, for it was how her papa always smelled.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. "It smells like you."

Valjean smiled back at her. "That's right," he said. "I want you to keep it and smell it every night, before you go to bed. It'll help you fall asleep. Now, you give me your handkerchief." Cosette obeyed, pulling her own handkerchief from her apron pocket and holding it out to him. He took it from her and wiped his brow with it; soon enough, it would carry his gardener's smell of sweat and dirt. "When mine doesn't smell like me anymore, we'll switch back, all right?"

Cosette gave him a look of such pure, open adoration that anyone would've thought he had just hung the moon in the sky. "What a good idea, Papa," she breathed.

Valjean's eyes shifted to the across the garden, where a group of little girls Cosette's age were sitting on the grass near the hedges, giggling and playing some sort of hand-clapping game. Cosette spent every second of her time in the garden with him, and while of course he was always happy to be with her, it also concerned him that she never played with the other girls. He knew that the Thenardiers had had two little girls, who had been as cruel to Cosette as their parents. Valjean didn't blame them for that, of course – children couldn't be expected to learn kindness if they'd never had an adult to model it for them – but they had left Cosette with the impression that _all_ other children were so cruel.

"Cosette," he asked, "the other girls here have all been nice to you, haven't they?"

Cosette immediately dropped her eyes to the ground. The other girls _had_ all been nice enough, but whenever one of them even spoke to her, she became almost paralyzingly shy. "Yes," she finally mumbled.

Valjean put his hand on her chin and gently raised her head until their eyes met. "I want you to try making friends with one of them, all right? Can you try doing that for me, precious?" Cosette looked reluctant, but she nodded. "That's my good girl," he praised, and he set her on the ground again.

Across the garden, the other girls had stopped their game and were walking across the grass to line up in front of the monastery. It was almost time for them to go back inside for the evening. That meant that he and Cosette would have to say goodbye until tomorrow, and sometimes saying goodbye to him still made her cry.

To delay her tears, Valjean put his hands on her shoulders and said again, "You're not stupid, Cosette... but tell me what you _are_." He had done this with her before. When he'd first taken her home from the Thenardiers last winter, it saddened him to realize that never in her memory had anyone ever spoken a kind word to her. So he'd sat her on his lap and made sure that this was the first verse of the Bible that he read to her.

Now, Cosette pursed her lips, trying to remember the exact wording. Then she said slowly, "I am fearfully and wonderfully made."

Valjean smiled and kissed her cheek. "That's right," he said. "You are fearfully and wonderfully made, and I want you to always remember that – _always_, all right? You've got to go back in now, so give me a hug, a big one." Cosette flung her arms around him and hugged him with all her strength. Valjean kissed her brow. "I love you, and I'll see you tomorrow."

"I love you too, Papa," she whispered into his ear, and then she reluctantly turned and ran to catch up with the other girls. Just before she went back inside the monastery, she looked back and blew a kiss to him over her shoulder. Valjean felt his heart melt. Then the heavy monastery door closed shut behind her, and she was gone again, until tomorrow afternoon, which suddenly felt very far away. Valjean pulled her little handkerchief from his pocket and held it close to his face. It smelled sweet and clean, like Cosette, and he prayed that she would be as comforted by having his handkerchief as he was by having hers.

Later, Fauchelevent helped him carry the basket of apples into their cottage. Most of the apples were to be stored away and eaten during the coming winter, but some of them they would spend the evening washing and peeling. It was easy enough work, although it left their hands sore.

"You know," Fauchelevent said, as they walked across the garden, "I believe if you asked Cosette who created the world, she would say it was you."

Valjean was silent for a moment, not sure whether he should feel flattered or horrified. It was certainly meant as a compliment, but still, Fauchelevent was nearly blaspheming. "I don't think so," he answered after a pause. "I read her the creation story from Genesis, about how God created the world in six days. She knows that."

"Well, she might _know_ that, but I think she still _believes_ that you did it. If I were a gambling man, I'd bet money on it." He paused and looked at Valjean with some surprise, as if he must be a deaf-and-dumb fool not to have noticed something so obvious. "You can tell it by her eyes when she looks at you. Have you not seen it?"


	3. Playing House

Obviously, there's a lot of fluff in this story, but it isn't entirely fluffy. In this chapter, we have some angst rearing its head again, as it is always wont to do. Many thanks again to those who've reviewed!

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><p><em>Strong inside, but you don't know it<em>  
><em>Good little girls, they never show it<em>  
><em>— <em>Madonna, "What It Feels Like for a Girl"

After almost a year in the convent, Cosette was reading and writing as well as the other girls her age, and even better than a few of them. As soon as she could write well enough, she had copied down her two favorite Bible verses on a slip of paper, and she kept it always in her apron pocket. "_I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made_," read one side of the paper, and on the other, "_Six days work shall be done, but on the seventh day is a Sabbath of rest_." The second verse was to remind her that Sunday was never more than six days away. Sunday was Cosette's favorite day. She looked forward to it all week, for on Sunday, there were no classes. There were only church services in the morning, then breakfast, and then she and the other girls were free to spend the whole day however they wished. Cosette, of course, always spent the entire day in the garden with her papa. How she loved Sunday.

As Cosette grew more comfortable with life in the convent, she'd become more confident, too. She had even done what her papa had asked of her, what had seemed so impossible at first, and made friends with the other girls. She got along especially well with Delphine and Clorinde, and they often played jacks and hand-clapping games together in their dormitory, in the evenings before bed. They sat together at church on Sunday mornings too, and one Sunday after services, as they were leaving the monastery for the garden, Delphine asked her, "Cosette, why don't you come play House with us? We've found the perfect spot for it, a little hideaway under the cherry tree."

Cosette had been scanning the garden, looking for her papa – he was probably around the corner, working in the vegetable beds with Uncle Fauvent – but she hesitated. Papa had always encouraged her to get along with the other girls; she'd never played House before, but it was always fun playing with Delphine and Clorinde. She always spent Sundays with Papa... but surely he wouldn't mind if she played with her friends for a while first?

"Well..." she said slowly, "all right, I suppose I can for just a little while."

Delphine took her hand and led her over to the cherry tree that stood near the garden wall. On the side facing the wall, the green branches hung low to the ground. "Come and see," Delphine said excitedly, and Cosette tucked her skirt in carefully and followed her as she crawled under the branches. Beneath them, with the tree trunk on one side, the wall on the other side, and the leafy branches overhead, it was almost like a little room. It was a warm summer day, but this shady spot felt so pleasant and cool.

Cosette sat back on her heels and looked around, impressed. "Ooh, this is nice," she breathed.

"It's just like our own little house outside," Delphine said.

Clorinde was already there, spreading pine needles out in a circle on the grass. "These pine needles can be the rug," she explained. "Don't they smell nice? Ooh, I know – I can pretend the rug smells so good because I was just outside beating the dust off it."

Cosette suddenly felt a twinge of fear, and she didn't know why. Then the pit of her stomach tightened, and from deep inside her, something old and ugly began rising to the surface. "_You'd better get that rug clean, or _you're_ what's going to get beaten around here."_ Madame used to make her clean all the rugs; if she was lucky, there was only dust that she could beat off with the broom handle. But too often, the rugs were soiled from where Monsieur or one of his friends had spilled beer, which left such foul-smelling stains that were so hard to scrub out. She'd scrubbed her hands raw.

Delphine held out a little tree branch she'd found on the ground. "And I'm going to make-believe this is my broom," she announced happily to the other girls. "See, these leaves at the bottom can like be the bristles." She swept the leafy end of the branch once across the ground, stirring up a little cloud of dust.

Cosette stiffened. She didn't understand this game at all. Why on earth would Delphine want to make-believe to be sweeping? Sweeping wasn't fun. The broom had been so heavy. It was taller than Cosette, and holding it had made her back and arms ache. Madame used to make her sweep all the rooms, on both floors of the inn, as well as the staircase and the steps outside, every morning before she could have even one bite of breakfast. Cosette took a deep breath and told herself to calm down, but she couldn't stop that old, familiar mix of fear and panic from rising in her chest. Delphine swept the branch again, and Cosette flinched, as if someone had struck her. She didn't want to play this game. The very idea terrified her.

"Are you all right, Cosette?" Clorinde asked her, but her voice seemed to come from somewhere very far away. "What's wrong?"

But Cosette couldn't explain what was wrong. She knew only that she needed her papa; she needed quiet time; she needed it right _now_, before something awful happened. Her mouth had gone very dry, but somehow, she forced herself to speak. "Excuse me," she heard herself say, and her voice was a strange sound in her ears – high and fearful. "I have to go find my father."

And with that, she turned and ran.

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><p>"It's just a scratch," Valjean said for the second time that morning. He was kneeling on the grass beside and the cucumber patch, studying a red mark on the back of his hand. "It's nothing."<p>

"It could get irritated," Fauchelevent argued. "You should put some aloe on it."

Valjean shook his head. "You remember how long it took for us to get those aloe plants to grow. I don't want to waste one of their leaves on this. Besides, it doesn't—"

But he was abruptly cut off by the sound of running footsteps, and then Cosette was there, flinging herself at him so hard that she almost knocked him over. She said nothing, only threw her arms around him and buried her face in the front of his tunic.

"Good heavens, Cosette," Valjean said, straightening up. "I'm always happy to see you too, love, but you mustn't tackle your old papa so hard." He smiled and kissed the crown of her head, but as he wrapped his arms around her, he realized that she was trembling against him, and that his tunic was wet with her tears. Every day when she saw him, she always ran to him and hugged him, but today she was clinging to him with a desperation that he hadn't seen from her in a long time.

"Cosette," he asked, growing concerned, "what's wrong, darling?" But she didn't answer, or even lift her face from his tunic. She was still shaking.

Beside him, Fauchelevent furrowed his brow. "She looks as if she's had some sort of fright," he said.

Valjean felt as bewildered as Fauchelevent sounded. He didn't know what could've upset Cosette so much, but he just put one hand on her head and said calmly, "I think she'll be all right. She just needs some quiet time."

He pulled her closer against his chest and held her, stroking her hair and murmuring sweet nothings into her ear, as she slowly began to calm down. She was nine-years-old now, but she was still quite small for her age and still fit neatly into Valjean's lap. He lived in dread of the day when Cosette grew too big for his lap.

A few minutes later, after she had calmed down and stopped shaking, Valjean said, "Cosette, come now and tell me what's wrong, sweetheart. Use your words." _Use your words_ had been a common refrain from him, especially during their earliest days together. She had been so unhappy for so long, with no way to express how she felt and nobody who would listen if she ever did, that articulating her emotions was still quite difficult for her.

Cosette leaned back from his chest and sniffled for several seconds, thinking and searching for the right words. Then she said, "Papa, I... I don't _want_ to play House. It isn't a fun game."

Valjean felt rather perplexed by this explanation, but he just smiled and stroked her cheek, which was wet from tears. "Well, goodness, child," he said gently, "you don't have to play House if you don't want to. It's nothing to cry over. Let's get your face cleaned up, all right?"

He pulled his handkerchief – which was really _her _handkerchief, for they were still swapping back-and-forth regularly, and they had each others' at the moment – from his pocket and wiped her tears away. "There we are. Now, can you give me a kiss?" Cosette leaned into him and kissed his cheek. "That's my good girl." He wrapped his arms around her again and held her a moment longer. "Do you feel better now, sweetheart?" She nodded against his chest, for she always felt better when her papa held her. "Are you sure?" Another nod.

Fauchelevent, still watching them, guessed that the girl needed a distraction from her troubles. "Why don't you tell your father to put some aloe on his hand, Cosette?" he asked. "Perhaps he'll listen to you."

Cosette looked down at Valjean's hand and noticed the scratch on the back of it. "Oh, Papa," she fretted, "your poor hand. What happened to it?"

Valjean smiled and stood up, setting Cosette on the ground. "It's nothing, love, really," he assured her. "I just scratched it picking some cucumbers. The leaves look so soft that it's easy to forget how prickly they really are."

"Here, I'll kiss it for you, Papa." Cosette drew his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss to the scratch mark. She went on, now bright-eyed and eager again, "There, it feels better now, doesn't it? Can I help you pick cucumbers? Oh, I mean, _may_ I? My hands are smaller. I could reach right under the leaves and pick some for you."

"No, I think your uncle and I have picked enough cucumbers for now," Valjean answered, "but why don't you come help us pick some tomatoes? There's nothing prickly on a tomato plant." Between the cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, and carrots, early summer was a very busy time of year for their garden. He touched her nose with his finger and added teasingly, "You know, your face was almost as red as a tomato when you were crying just now."

Cosette smiled. She loved nothing more in the world than helping her papa in the garden. She took Valjean's hand in one hand, Fauchelevent's hand in the other, and as they set off for the tomato beds, she slipped closer to her papa and asked in a whisper, "Papa, am I still wonderfully made, even when I'm crying?"

Valjean squeezed her hand in his and smiled down at her. "You're always wonderfully made, child," he promised. "Every second of every day. _Always_."


	4. Eating Dinner

This chapter is extremely fluffy _—_ and probably a little sappy, too. You've been warned.

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><p><em>Drip-drip-drop, when the sky is cloudy<em>  
><em>You come along with a song right away<em>  
><em>Drip-drip-drop, little April shower<em>  
><em>Your pretty music will brighten the day<em>  
><em>—<em> Larry Morey, "Little April Shower"

"But Papa," Cosette protested, "it isn't raining so hard, and I don't mind getting a little wet. Please can't I come visit you and Uncle Fauvent?" It was a windy, rainy, chilly spring evening. The weather was so unpleasant that the girls of the convent hadn't been able to go outside to the garden that day. Cosette had gotten permission to go visit her father in his cottage, but Valjean was trying to convince her to stay inside. He thought that it was much too cold and wet for Cosette to even be setting foot outside.

Right now, he was standing beneath his umbrella, and Cosette was standing in the open doorway of the monastery. The rain was coming down in sheets. "Cosette, it's raining _very_ hard," he said firmly. "There'll be thunder and lightning soon. You need to stay inside and keep warm and dry. I'll see tomorrow, all right?"

"But Papa," Cosette pleaded, "you said that we would spend time together every single day, _always_. You _promised_. _Please_ can't I come outside?" She looked so heartbroken at the thought of not visiting with him for even one day that Valjean relented.

"Oh, all right, child," he said, sighing, "I suppose you can come." Cosette squealed with delight and darted forward, joining him beneath his umbrella and hugging him around the chest. He hugged her back with his free arm. "You can have dinner with your uncle and me. He's cooking it right now."

"Oh, thank you, Papa!" Cosette cried, and she rose onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Valjean pulled the monastery door closed behind her, and set off across the garden in the pouring rain, their arms still wrapped each other beneath the big umbrella. Cosette snuggled against him and whispered into the warmth of his coat, "I _missed_ you, Papa."

Valjean kissed the crown of her head. "I missed you too, love."

Cosette was now ten-years-old, and Valjean was living in dread of the day when she was less than thrilled to see him. He didn't _want_ that day to come, but he felt certain that as she grew older, her greetings to him would eventually become more casual and less excited. Perhaps that day would still come... but it hadn't yet. They visited with each other every day, and every day, Cosette was thrilled to see her papa. She didn't run and jump into his arms anymore, as she had when she was younger, but as soon as she saw him, she grinned her brightest smile, kissed his cheek, and hugged him with all her strength. Valjean would hug her back – sometimes lifting her off her feet, which always made her giggle – and kiss her brow. "I _missed_ you, Papa," Cosette always whispered to him, as if they had been separated for years.

When Valjean swung open the cottage door, Fauchelevent looked up from where he was bending over the fireplace. When he saw Cosette with him, he laughed. "Well, well," he said teasingly, "look at who you brought back with you. Did you know, Cosette, when your father left just now, he said he was just going to tell you to stay inside in this rain. And I said, 'You might try, but you'll never convince that girl to stay away from you. You wouldn't come back alone,' and sure enough, here you are." He paused, still chuckling. "If I were a gambling man, I would've bet money on it."

There was no stove in the garden cottage, but Valjean and Fauchelevent cooked all their meals easily enough in the fireplace. They roasted meat directly over the flames, they cooked vegetables in their little Dutch oven, and they baked bread on the hearth. Cosette always liked to watch them cook dinner, and she especially liked to read the labels on their tiny pots of herbs. The inside walls of their cottage were lined with herbs of every kind – they were too delicate for outdoor weather, Papa said – and every one was neatly labeled with a slip of paper tied to a twig and stuck in its soil. Valjean and Fauchelevent were very careful to never confuse one with another, for the herbs were used as remedies when one of the sisters or students fell ill. Cosette liked to walk around the room, reading the labels, as she was doing now. Routines of almost any kind were comforting to her. _Bitterleaf: disyntery, elderberry: cold and flu, flaxseed: constipation, ginger: nausea, licorice root: bronchitis, peppermint: indigestion..._

"Come sit down and eat, Cosette," her father called, and she scurried over to the table. She set out three plates and cups, and Fauchelevent pulled a pile of roasted potatoes from the Dutch oven and began to divide them up and slice bread.

Valjean was busy over one of the herbs, and Cosette frowned and tugged on his shirttail. "You must sit down and eat too, Papa," she insisted, pulling out his chair. "And you too, Uncle Fauvent. You've both been working in the garden all day, and you must be famished."

"I'm just cutting some chives for us," Valjean said. He turned and held out a handful of freshly-cut chives to her. "Here, take some for your potatoes." They sat and said Grace, and for a while, they were like any ordinary family eating dinner. Cosette told them all about what she had learned in school that day, and Valjean and Fauchelevent discussed what work needed to be done in the garden.

"All this rain has probably exposed some roots," Valjean said. "We can cover them up again tomorrow, if it stops by then."

"I hope it stops before Sunday," Cosette said. "I want to spend the whole day in the garden with you. Oh, and I just remembered, Papa. I asked the Mother Superior for permission to keep a plant in the dormitory room, and she said that I may, as long as I take care of it and don't get any dirt on the floor. I think I want one of the same herbs that you and Fauchelevent keep inside here. Can I have one, Papa? Oh, I mean, _may_ I?"

Valjean loved listening to her chatter on like this, and her enthusiasm – over something as simple as an herb plant, no less – was impossible to resist. He chuckled and cupped one hand against her cheek. "Of course, child. I'll put a mint seedling in a little pot for you."

"A mint seedling, that's just the thing," Fauchelevent nodded approvingly. "They grow splendidly indoors."

"And they smell divine," Valjean added. "You'll love it."

Cosette gave a little squeal of delight and impulsively kissed his cheek. "Oh, thank you, Papa," she gushed, and Valjean imagined that she couldn't have looked happier than if he had just given her the entire Chateau de Versailles. "I'm going to keep it on my bedside table, right in the front of the window, and I'm going to water it every day. Then I'll be a _real_ gardener, just like you, won't I, Papa?"

"Yes, and you've been doing such a fine job of helping me that I'm sure you'll be splendid at it."

Later, Valjean let Cosette help clear the table after they were done eating, but he shook his head when she asked to help wash the dishes. He had a strict rule that Cosette was not to do any hard work. He said that it was time for her to be going back into the monastery anyway.

"Must I?" Cosette pouted, looking glum.

"I'm not going to keep you out late in weather like this, child," Valjean told her firmly, in a tone that should've ended the conversation, but tonight, Cosette couldn't resist pointing out, "It isn't time for me to go to bed yet."

"You're already sniffling, and I don't want you to get any worse. I'm taking you back to the dormitory, and you're going to read from your Bible, say your prayers, and go to bed early."

"Yes, Papa," Cosette answered dutifully, sighing. Her papa didn't have many rules, but one of them was that whenever he told her to do something, she must do it, without complaining or being contradictory. It was a rule that usually gave her no trouble, but tonight, she found it hard to do as her papa said. She couldn't say so, but she thought glumly, _I wish I could spend the night here in the cottage with Papa_.

Valjean held her shawl out to her, and she took it from him and stood up. As she pulled it around her shoulders, she turned to Fauchelevent. "Uncle Fauvent, will you make sure Papa dries off properly when he comes back inside? And you'll warm yourself up by the fire too, Papa, won't you? If you don't want me to get sick, then you mustn't allow yourself to get sick either, Papa. If you were catch a cold, then_ I _would catch it too, when I came to visit you."

"I wouldn't allow you to come visit me if I were sick, child."

"Oh, but I still _would_," she argued back, with a sly little grin on her face. "You might try to stop me, but I would still come to visit you anyway. You would never be able to keep me away from you." Valjean felt her little arms wrap around his waist and tighten, demonstrating her point.

"She's right, you know," Fauchelevent put in, chuckling as he looked on at how Cosette was clinging to her papa like a monkey. "I don't believe you would."  
>Valjean laughed a little and stroked her cheek. "Well, I guess I'm outnumbered, then, aren't I? You go say goodbye to your uncle, so I can put my boots on."<p>

Cosette scurried across the room to Fauchelevent. "Goodnight, Uncle Fauvent," she said politely, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for dinner. It was very good. I'll see you and Papa tomorrow."

Valjean pulled on his big black rainboots and opened the front door a crack. The evening had grown windier and chillier, and the rain was still pouring. The gravel path that ran across the garden from their cottage to the monastery was flooded from sight beneath puddles. Valjean grimaced as he took it in. He mustn't let Cosette get her feet wet. He turned to her and held out his arms. "Come, Cosette," he ordered, "let me carry you." He scooped her up and held her easily with one arm and opened the umbrella with the other.

"I'll be right back," Valjean called over his shoulder to Fauchelevent. "Are you all ready, my girl?" Cosette nodded, and he raised the umbrella and stepped outside into the cold. She shivered as the wind blew at them, and Valjean held her tighter. "I don't want you to get wet. Try to keep as close as you can to me, all right?"

Cosette wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her soft cheek against his stubbly one. "Always," she whispered in his ear.


	5. Shelling Peas

This chapter is dedicated to Rabbi KW, in thanks for the Torah study lesson that inspired it.

And to _Frozen_ fans, wait for the reference... and if you spot it, please let me know! :)

* * *

><p><em>And you won't understand, but you will learn someday<em>  
><em>That wherever you are and whatever you face<em>  
><em>These are the people who make you feel safe in this world<em>  
><em>My sweet blue-eyed girl<em>  
>— Tim Minchin, "White Wine in the Sun"<p>

Sweat dripped down Valjean's face and into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision, and he raised one hand and wiped it away with his handkerchief. More sweat beaded on his neck and trickled down his chest and back. All of Paris was sweltering in a late summer heat wave. The cool weather of autumn was still several weeks away, and Valjean and Fauchelevent had to work hard all day to keep the garden watered. Valjean was kneeling in the grass, picking peas – one of the vegetables that they'd managed to save from wilting – when he heard Fauchelevent walking towards him. He sat up slowly, for the heat made him dizzy.

"You looked like you couldn't bear being out in this sun for one more minute," Fauchelevent told him. "It's hot enough to drive a man to swearing. Why don't you shell what you've got, and I'll take a turn at picking?"

Valjean nodded his thanks and picked up his basket full of peas. He was walking back across the garden with it when he heard running footsteps, and then Cosette's sweet voice calling to him, "Papa!"

She ran across the garden to him and flung both arms around him in a hug, even though he was dripping with sweat and had to smell awful. He hugged her back with his free arm and kissed her forehead as she stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"I missed you, Papa," she said. "I thought classes would never be over today."

"It's this heat. It makes the time seem to drag by. You really shouldn't be outside in it." But he said the last part casually, for he knew that no matter how unpleasant the weather might be, it was useless to try to keep Cosette from coming outside to visit him. She was now eleven-years-old, and she had still never missed visiting with her papa for even a single day.

Cosette just smiled. "Delphine and Clorinde said they're staying inside today, and lot of the other girls too, because it's so hot, but I don't care. The heat never bothered me, anyway. But oh, Papa, you look so flushed. Your poor face is all red. Here, come sit down in the shade, and I'll bring you some water."

She took his hand and led him over to the shaded grass beside the cottage, and he sat, leaning against the outside wall, while Cosette ran and fetched the water bucket from nearby. She filled the old tin ladle with water and handed it to him, and as he drank, she soaked her handkerchief – _her_ handkerchief, for they were still swapping back and forth regularly, and she happened to have her own at the moment – and wiped the sweat off his face and neck with it.

"There," she said, dabbing at his forehead one last time. "You're much less red now. Do you feel better?"

"I do, much better. Thank you, Cosette."

"I worry so much about you and Uncle Fauvent, working all day when it's so hot. Are you both getting plenty to drink? We learned in class about how important it is to get enough to drink, especially when it's hot. It's called hydration."

He smiled. "You're getting to be so smart. But your uncle and I are fine, really. Don't you worry about us, sweetpea."

Cosette picked up one of the peas from his basket. "Is this a sweetpea, too?"

Valjean chuckled a bit. "No, those are just ordinary peas. You're the only sweetpea in this garden, Cosette."

Cosette giggled. "Can I help you shell them? Oh, I mean, _may_ I?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she set the basket of peas between them and began to. She still loved to help her father in the garden. Just a few weeks ago, she had suggested that she was big enough now to help him do hard work, but he had shaken his head and said, "No, Cosette, we won't even discuss it," in such a firm voice that she knew arguing with him would be useless. She was never allowed to do any hard work – her father didn't have many rules, but that was one of them – but shelling peas was easy.

"Tell me what you learned in school today," Valjean prompted, shelling peas with her.

"We had a writing assignment in religious class this morning. Sister Marie-Elise said that we're each to write about a person in the Bible who doesn't usually get a lot of attention – a small character."

Valjean nodded approvingly. "That sounds like a good idea. Have you thought of who you're going to write about?"

Cosette pursed her lips and tilted her head, thinking. "Well... I haven't quite decided yet, but I think I want to write about Rahav, from the Book of Joshua."

"Remind me of who she was."

"She was woman who hid some Israelites from the king of Jericho. The king wanted to kill them, but Rahav helped them get away to safety. I reread the chapter about her in Joshua this afternoon, and she even said... hold on, I copied down some verses." Cosette paused and fished a piece of paper out of her apron pocket. She unfolded it and read, "She told them, 'I know the Lord has given the country to you, for your God is the only God in heaven and on earth.'" Cosette paused again, twirling an empty pea pod between her fingers. "Papa," she said thoughtfully, "you always say that God makes miracles happen every day."

"That's right, darling," Valjean nodded. "We don't always see the miracles that God does, but they're always around us."

"Is one of God's miracles..." she asked slowly, piecing her thoughts together, "...that He could take someone who – who used to a bad person, maybe, and change them, and make them into a good person? Or at least... into a better one?"

Valjean stopped shelling peas and looked hard at her. Cosette's question described his own life so well that it was almost too close for comfort. But she couldn't possibly know that. "What do you mean, Cosette?"

"Well, you see, the scripture says that Rahav was a... that she was a..." Cosette blushed and ducked her head. Then, apparently unable to say the word aloud, she held her paper out to Valjean and pointed to another verse that she copied down. Valjean leaned closer to read it; her handwriting was so small and neat now that no one would ever guess that she'd started school late.

_They set out, and came to the house of Rahav, a harlot._

Valjean nearly dropped the peas in his hand. Of all the hundreds of minor characters in the Bible, Cosette wanted to write about a woman who'd worked as a prostitute? For a moment, he was too stunned to speak... but perhaps Cosette didn't realize that Rahav had practiced the world's oldest profession. She was only eleven, and she'd lived most of her life in a convent. Surely she didn't really understand what the word _harlot_ meant.

"Do you know what that word means, Cosette?" he asked sharply.

"It means – well, no, not exactly, but... you know, Papa," she stammered, still blushing. "It means she was a – a woman of, um, of ill repute."

Valjean nodded, realizing that Cosette didn't really know what the word meant, after all. That was a relief to him. He wished that she would never know. "Tell me why you want to write about her," he prompted.

"Well... I think her story is supposed to mean that some people might seem like bad people at first – like, Rahav might seem bad, because she was a..." Cosette lowered her voice and whispered the word. "...a _harlot_, but she helped hide the Israelites from the king, and she knew that their God was the only God, even when no one else in Jericho did. So she really wasn't _bad_, exactly, but maybe she just, um, made some bad choices."

"Maybe she didn't even have a choice." Valjean's voice was slightly strained, and he quickly gazed away across the garden to keep it from breaking completely. He took a deep breath. Cosette mustn't know that he wasn't talking about Rahav. "Maybe she had no other way to earn a living, and so she had to become a harlot."

Cosette chewed on an empty pea pod for a moment, thinking. She didn't really understand her father's words, but she thought that she did. "That means that we shouldn't judge her, right?" she asked. "You always say that we shouldn't judge others, because only God can judge."

Valjean suddenly reached across the basket of peas and took Cosette's face gently between his hands, raising her head until their eyes met. "That's right, Cosette. We must try to never judge anyone, even..." _Even prostitutes_, he thought,_ or prisoners_. "...even people who might seem wicked to us at first. That's a very important lesson. Some grown-ups still haven't learned it. I want you to remember that always, all right?"

"I will, Papa," she promised.

"That's my good girl," he praised, and he leaned forward to kiss her brow before he released her. She was such a bright little girl, and with such compassion for others. Valjean prayed that she would never lose it.

Cosette picked up the basket and shook it a bit, shifting the peas around. "I think we've shelled them all," she said. "I don't see any more unshelled ones." She put the basket back down and looked up at her father. "Can I help you do something else, Papa?" she asked eagerly.

Valjean sighed heavily. There was so much that he could never tell Cosette.

"No, I think you've done enough for today, Cosette," he answered softly, still struggling to keep his voice even. "Come here, my girl, and let's just sit for a while." He moved the basket of peas out from between them and held out one arm to her. She moved closer, tucking herself in against him, and for some time, they simply sat there together in the hot, golden afternoon, watching the clouds drift across the sky.


	6. Growing Up

Although this isn't the last chapter, it was the last one that I wrote, and, well, it just isn't the best. It's been done before, by me and other authors. Still, I hope at least some of y'all will enjoy it!

* * *

><p><em>Well, I've been afraid of changes 'cause I –<br>I built my life around you._  
><em>But time makes you bolder. Children get older.<em>  
><em>I'm getting older, too.<em>  
>– Stevie Nicks, "Landslide"<p>

Valjean's heart grew heavier with every step that he took. It was the late afternoon, the part of the day that all the girls had as free time, and yet, Cosette had not come running up to him like she always did. He hadn't even seen her, and so he had put down his hoe and was now searching the garden for her and growing worried. Where was she? She wouldn't have possibly stayed inside on such a beautiful day. It was springtime, and the garden had never looked or smelled more heavenly than it did now, with blossoms on the apple tree and cherry tree, and flowers blooming everywhere. All the other girls had come spilling outside as soon as classes ended to enjoy it – all except Cosette, it seemed.

Valjean's heart sank as he realized where she must be. She wouldn't have stayed inside, so she must be out in the garden, but spending time with her friends before she came to see him. Through all their years in convent, Cosette had still never missed visiting with him for even one day – but perhaps today, or someday soon, she finally would. After all, she was twelve-years-old now, and growing up. Soon, she wouldn't be his little girl anymore.

Valjean blinked away the tears that he felt forming in his eyes, and he hastily looked away across the garden to keep from crying. He scanned the other girls Cosette's age – most of them were sitting in groups, talking, rather than playing games like the younger ones – but still, he did not find her. Then, near the monastery door, he spotted Sister Marie-Catherine. She waved him over.

Sister Marie-Catherine had worked as a nurse and midwife before becoming a nun, and since entering the convent, she had taken care of the girls and other sisters whenever any of them fell ill. Valjean and Fauchelevent consulted with her often, to give her the herbs that they grew as remedies and to find out which ones she needed more of. Today, though, she didn't need to talk to him about herbs.

"I knew you'd be looking for Cosette," she said when Valjean approached her. "I'm afraid she won't be able to see you today. She's feeling a bit under the weather."

Valjean's heart lept up into his throat. Cosette must be seriously ill if she couldn't come outside to visit him. There had been times when she'd been a bit sick – sneezing and sniffling in cold weather, coughing in heavy rains – and it had never stopped her before. What if she had now caught some terrible, serious disease, something beyond Sister Marie-Catherine's skill to treat?

"There's no need for alarm," Sister Marie-Catherine said kindly, when she saw his stricken face. "It's nothing serious. She'll be quite all right, I assure you."

Valjean breathed a bit easier at that. "But what is it?" he asked. "What has she got?"

Sister Marie-Catherine hesitated. "It isn't for a lady to speak of," she said delicately, "but I'll be surprised if she isn't up and about again tomorrow morning. It's nothing to worry about, really." And with that, she slipped back inside.

"But what – " Valjean started to ask, but the door was already closed. He was left outside, and since he wouldn't be seeing Cosette today, he sighed and trudged back across the garden to continue hoeing. The spring day, which had felt so gay to him before, was now suddenly cast into gloom. No day that did not have Cosette in it could truly be a spring day, for to Valjean, she was springtime itself.

* * *

><p>He'd been lying in bed for some twenty minutes when it became obvious that he wasn't going to fall asleep. He threw the blankets off, got up, and began pacing the floor, nervously wringing his hands. He was tempted to climb the trellis and sneak in through the window – as he'd done that night years ago, when Cosette was little – and find her and ask her what was wrong. He'd been worrying ever since he spoke to Sister Marie-Catherine, even though she'd told him that there was no need to worry.<p>

His pacing must've woken Fauchelevent, for after a few minutes, he stirred in his bed, sat up, and lit a candle.

"What on earth?" he asked, yawning, when he saw Valjean up. "Come on, we've got to get up at dawn tomorrow. Don't tell me you can't sleep because you're worried about Cosette."

"I can't help it!" Valjean burst out. He wrung his hands again, so hard that he looked ready to break his own fingers. "She's never been so sick that she couldn't even visit me before. Oh, what if she's caught something dreadful?"

"The sister told you there was nothing to worry about," Fauchelevent reminded him. Valjean had recounted their conversation to him during dinner – which Valjean had barely eaten a bite of.

"I know, but I just don't understand why she wouldn't even tell me what's wrong with Cosette. I have a right to know, don't I? I'm her father, aren't I? I asked her, but she only said it wasn't for a lady to speak of."

Fauchelevent's expression grew thoughtful, and then he sat up a bit straighter in bed. "Perhaps... how old is Cosette now? Isn't she twelve?"

Valjean nodded, and he was about to ask, _But what does that have to do with anything? _when suddenly – _oh_. He stopped pacing. "Oh, of course," he murmured. Cosette was twelve, and she had something that it wasn't for a lady to speak of. "You think it... you think she..."

Fauchelevent shrugged. "You can ask her tomorrow. Now will you please go to sleep?"

Valjean returned to his bed, but he didn't go to sleep. He lay awake, wondering. _Should_ he ask Cosette about it tomorrow? But how was he supposed to find the words to ask her if she'd starting bleeding? And wouldn't Cosette feel uncomfortable talking to him about it? Sister Marie-Catherine had said that it wasn't for a lady to speak of, and if Cosette _had _begun bleeding, didn't that mean that she was officially a lady now? He didn't want to embarrass her. He wondered what to do, how to handle the situation, and finally, he wondered if he would ever fall asleep.

But eventually, he did.

* * *

><p>The next afternoon, as soon as he finally laid eyes on Cosette again, Valjean cried, "Cosette! Darling!" and hugged her so hard that she had trouble breathing for a moment. He put one hand on her head and pressed her head against his chest, right over his heart, and held her like that for a long moment.<p>

"I missed you seeing you so much yesterday, precious," he said, still holding her and kissing the top of her head.

"I missed you too, Papa," Cosette put in, now that she could breathe enough to talk again.

"Sister Marie-Catherine said you weren't feeling well, and she told me not to worry, but I couldn't help it. I barely slept at all last night, and I drove your uncle to distraction, I'm afraid."

Cosette looked down. "I'm sorry," she said guiltily. "I didn't mean for you to worry."

"Oh, don't apologize, Cosette. It isn't your fault you were sick, sweetheart. I'm just glad you're feeling better now." He kissed her again.

"I wasn't sick, exactly," Cosette whispered, still looking at the ground. Her cheeks flushed pink. "I was – I – Sister Marie-Catherine said it's called... becoming a woman."

Her words warmed Valjean's heart. He'd suspected that she'd begun bleeding, and that she wouldn't want to talk to him about it. It made his blood run cold with fear to realize that as Cosette grew older, there would be more and more things that she wouldn't want to discuss with him. But even though she was obviously embarrassed to tell him that she'd begun bleeding, she was still telling him – still _confiding_ in him, as she always had. She was growing up, but at least they weren't growing apart.

"Did it frighten you?" he asked gently. This was another worry that had kept him awake last night. He'd never thought to warn her about women's bleedings – naive, foolish, single father that he was – and if none of the sisters had done it for him, then she'd probably been quite frightened by it.

She kicked at the dirt, still not looking at him. "Not really. I'd heard about it from... some of the other girls."

"Did it hurt?"

"A little. It made my back ache, and my stomach. But Sister Marie-Catherine gave me some peppermint, and I'm feeling much better today. She said it can be... harder, the first time it happens."

_I wish your mother could be here to see you now_. The words were right there in Valjean's throat, waiting, and he very nearly said them aloud. There were true, after all; he did so wish that Fantine could've been there with Cosette, to comfort her and answer all her questions. But he forced those words down and said instead, "You're growing up so fast, my girl. I hope you're still going to help your uncle and me in the garden."

She glared at him with a bit of annoyance. "Of course, Papa. It isn't as if this changes everything. But you mustn't tell Uncle Fauvent, or anyone else. I don't want a lot of people knowing."

"I won't speak of it to a soul, Cosette, I promise – but you must promise that no matter how old you get, you'll still be my little girl."

Cosette smiled and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Always," she whispered.


	7. Let Yesterday Burn

It's almost hard for me to believe that this is end. I've really enjoyed sharing this story with all of you. This chapter might be the last one to get posted, but it was the first one to get written. All the other chapters grew out of this one, and this one in turn grew out of the song "Live Like a Warrior," by Matisyahu, which I've quoted in part below. It's my fight song, what I listen to after a bad day. This isn't the first time Matisyahu's lyrics have inspired me to write, and I'm sure it won't be the last. I dream of someday meeting him and telling him how much his music has meant to me.

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><p><em>Your heart gets too heavy<em>  
><em>With things you've carried a long time<em>  
><em>You've been up, you've been down<em>  
><em>You're tired and you don't know why<em>

_But you're never gonna go back_  
><em>You only live one life, so let go, let go, let go<em>  
><em>Today, live like you want to<em>  
><strong><em>Let yesterday burn, and throw it in a fire<em>**

— Matisyahu, "Live Like a Warrior"

Valjean heard the heavy monastery door creak open, and then Cosette's footsteps, a bit louder than usual, as she crunched across the frost on the ground towards him. It was still early in the evening, but winter was arriving, and the days were now so short that it was already as dark as midnight. But Valjean was easy to see in the garden; his silhouette was stark and black against the small fire that he was burning on a patch of dirt.

"Hello, Papa," Cosette said when she reached his side, and kissed his cheek. Her greetings to him were more casual now. Certainly, she was always still happy to see him, but she was no longer excited by it, as she once had been. Valjean told himself that this was inevitable, that it was part of Cosette growing up, but still it saddened him.

"Hello, precious," he said softly, as he wrapped one arm tightly around her and wished again that he could freeze time.

Cosette was now thirteen-years-old, and she was growing at an almost alarming rate. Sometimes it seemed to Valjean that she grew taller every day. She no longer had to stand on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, but she still kissed him every day, and she still called him _Papa_. Valjean lived in dread of the day when she began calling him _Father_ instead.

"What are you burning?" she asked him, looking down at the fire.

"It's just some old dead leaves," he said, sliding a few more leaves into the flames with his poker. "Your uncle and I saved most of them to make into mulch, but so many fell this autumn that we're still having to burn some up." He paused and ran his hand over her hair. "Have you been keeping warm enough?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Let me feel your hands."

She held her hands out, and Valjean took them in his and rubbed her fingers through her mittens, checking to make sure that they weren't too cold. She was wearing mittens, a cap, and heavy shawl over her school uniform; he never let set her set foot outside in cold weather unless she was dressed warmly enough, and yet he was still always asking her that question during the winter. _Have you been keeping warm enough? Let me feel your hands._ He said it so often that he imagined Cosette must be sick of hearing it, even though she never said so. But Valjean couldn't help it. He was still haunted by the memory of finding her in the woods, shivering in the cold, with raw hands and bare feet in the middle of winter.

He used to always ask her another question in cold weather, too. _Are you wearing long underwear?_ She used to always answer, "Yes, Papa," until last winter, when she'd blushed crimson at the question, embarrassed, and exclaimed, "Papa!" He'd understood that he couldn't ask her about long underwear anymore.

Last winter, a few nights had been so cold that he and Fauchelevent had been forced to abandon their separate beds and sleep huddled together for warmth, in a pile of blankets in front of the fire. He knew that the dormitory room where Cosette and the other girls slept was always kept warm and comfortable, but he still wished so much that he could go to her room at night and spread an extra blanket over her.

"I don't want you to get cold," he said, still squeezing her hands in his. "The temperature's going to drop tonight without the cloud coverage." He looked up at the night sky, which was clear after several days of being overcast. Gray plumes of smoke from the fire rose above their heads and faded into the blackness, as if they were drowning in an inky sea.

Cosette followed his gaze. "The stars are so beautiful, though," she said softly. She'd been making more remarks like that lately, as she was growing quieter and more observant. She talked to Valjean, of course – still _confided_ in him, which he treasured – but she didn't chatter away and say every thought that ran through her head, like she used to.

"That they are," Valjean agreed. They stared up at the stars in silence for a moment, and then he said, "I don't want you to catch a chill out here, darling." He gestured to the cottage; Fauchelevent was already inside, preparing dinner, and the golden-lit windowpane looked as cozy as could be in the chilly darkness. "Why don't you go on inside and help your uncle with dinner? I'll be there in a little while, as soon as this fire has died out."

But Cosette didn't move. Some branches burning in the fire suddenly collapsed; the flames dropped smaller, casting Cosette's face into shadow. "But Papa," she said softly, "I need to talk you."

Valjean smiled. It was always so important to Cosette to tell him what she'd learned in school that day, and he always loved hearing it. It gladdened him to know that she was getting a good education. "I know, child," he said patiently, "but you can talk to me while we're eating dinner. Go on inside, now."

Obeying her father was second nature to her, and yet Cosette still didn't move. "No, Papa," she said, and there was strange, urgent tone in her voice. "I mean... I need to tell you something – just you. I don't... I can't say it in front of anyone else."

The tone of her voice concerned Valjean, and he turned from the fire to face her fully. He sensed that something was wrong. "All right, Cosette," he said gently, "what is it you need to tell me?"

"Well," she began slowly, looking uncertain, "we... we had a creative writing assignment in class. Sister Marie-Cecile said that each had to write a story, and use our best penmanship, and make sure that we spelt every word right, and... we had to make the story up ourselves."

Cosette seemed troubled as she told him this, but Valjean couldn't imagine why. She loved to read; surely writing a story of her own would be an assignment that she enjoyed. He nodded for her to continue.

"Well, we all turned in our stories last week, and Sister Marie-Cecile gave them back to us today, and..." Cosette fell silent again.

"What? Did you get a bad mark on yours?" Valjean asked. Cosette usually got very good marks on her schoolwork, and perhaps an unexpected bad mark was the reason she was so upset.

"No... no, I got a good mark on it. Sister Marie-Cecile even wrote that it was a good story."

"Well, then, what's the matter?" Valjean asked, perplexed.

Cosette looked guiltily down at her feet. "I broke the rule, Papa," she said, so lowly that Valjean could barely hear her over the crackle of the fire. "We were supposed to make the story up all by ourselves, but I... I cheated. I wrote about something that really happened." With that, she pulled a piece of paper from her apron pocket and thrust it out at Valjean, her hand shaking. Bewildered, Valjean took it from her and began to read, and as soon as he saw the title of her story, he began to understand.

_The Lark_  
><em>By Cosette Fauchelevent<em>

The Lark, Valjean knew, was what those terrible inn-keepers had called Cosette. He'd never known exactly why. He'd never once called her that by name. He'd wanted her to forget that part of her life completely. How could she still remember that name? Uneasy, he read on.

_Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Catherine._

Catherine – that name was familiar to Valjean, too. It was what Cosette had named the doll that he'd given her when they first met. How Cosette had loved that doll, but they'd had to leave it behind when they'd fled Gorbeau House in the middle of the night. Valjean still felt guilty for that – Catherine had been the first toy that Cosette had ever had, after all, and the first gift that he ever gave her.

_Catherine lived in a little village, with an inn-keeper man and his wife, who were very unkind to her. They made her work hard all day doing chors, even on Sundays. They never gave her enough to eat, and if they found any fault in her work, they hit her. They never called her Catherine. Sometimes they called her crude words, but usually, they called her The Lark._

Valjean felt his chest turn to ice. Dear God... Cosette remembered. All these years that they'd been living their quiet, happy lives in the convent, Valjean always assumed that Cosette had forgotten her life before him. But he was wrong. She hadn't forgotten those years at all. She remembered. Everything that he'd tried so hard to make her forget, everything that he'd hoped and prayed for her to forget, she remembered. She remembered being hungry and alone. She remembered being beaten and mistreated. Why had Valjean not been able to make her forget it? Had he not loved her enough? The worst sense of failure spread over him as he read on.

_Catherine did not know it, but God was watching her. One very cold winter day, she was sent into the forest to fetch water from the well. It was dark and frightening in the forest, but –_

As much as it pained Valjean to discover that Cosette remembered those years, he wanted to read more, to know how the story ended, but that was as far as he read, for just then, Cosette suddenly snatched the paper from his hands, crumpled it up, and threw it in the fire. For a moment, Valjean simply watched it burn to ash, too astonished to say anything, and then, before any words could come to him, Cosette suddenly burst into tears.

"Cosette, sweetheart, it's all right," Valjean said automatically, and he wrapped his arms around her and lead her inside the cottage. Fauchelevent looked from the Dutch-oven, surprised, when he came in with Cosette still sobbing. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Valjean shook his head, and Fauchelevent slipped outside to keep an eye on the fire, guessing that Cosette and her papa needed a moment alone. Before he left, he poured a cup of tea and set it on the table, and Valjean was grateful. He furtively stirred in a spoonful of some crushed St. John's Wort – _calms the nerves_, read the little label on the plant.

"Cosette, darling, try to calm down," Valjean said in his most soothing voice, as he sat them down at the table, his arms still wrapped around Cosette. She did try to calm down, but she was shaking and crying harder than Valjean had seen her cry in years, and it took some time. He kept his arms around her and wiped her face occasionally with his handkerchief, as if she were a little girl again.

"You looked so... _unhappy_," Cosette suddenly got out between her tears, before Valjean could ask her anything. "When you were reading it, your face looked so – I didn't want you to read anymore. That's why I threw it in the fire."

Valjean took a deep breath and prayed to God to help him find the right words and keep his voice calm. "I'm sorry, darling," he murmured into her hair. "I didn't mean to look unhappy. I was just... surprised. I didn't know that you could still remember that time."

At the word _remember,_ Cosette stopped crying, raised her head, and looked at him. It was as if she had been waiting to hear that word. "I did break the rules, didn't I, Papa?" she asked slowly. "I mean, I wrote about something that really happened. It did really happen, didn't it?"

Valjean sighed heavily. "Yes, Cosette," he said in a low voice. "I wish it hadn't, but it did." It pained him to say the words, but to his surprise, Cosette actually seemed relieved by them.

"Oh, I _thought_ it did," she breathed. She sounded as if she'd been wanting to say this for a long time. "I mean, I was so _sure_ that it had happened, but I can't remember it very well – only just barely – and you never talked about it, and I always wondered why, and sometimes I thought that perhaps I'd only dreamed it, or... oh, I don't know. It feels so confusing sometimes, Papa."

He handed her teacup, now that she'd stopped shaking, and she drank a sip. It seemed to calm her.

A new and devastating thought suddenly occurred to Valjean – if Cosette remembered her life before him, then did she know that he wasn't her blood father? He'd told her when they first met to call him Papa, and she'd always done so, but perhaps she understood that they weren't related by blood. But Valjean couldn't bear to ask her. After all, what if Cosette _did_ believe that he was her blood father? It would crush her to learn that he wasn't. No, he would never find it in him to ask her that question.

"I'm sorry, darling," he said again. He felt sure that this was the hardest conversation he'd ever had in his life. He was terrified that she would ask him some question that he couldn't answer. He went on carefully, "I never meant to confuse you. It was just such an unhappy time. I thought it would be better for you if we never talked about it. Perhaps that was wrong of me."

Cosette sighed and leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, thinking. "It was sort of strange," she said. "I started writing about it, and more came back to me, and it was... it felt sort of easier, to pretend like it had happened to someone else." She took another sip of tea. "I wish I hadn't burned it up. I didn't really mean to."

"I know you didn't, precious. You were just upset." He paused and pressed a kiss to her temple. "But I think I know how the story ends, anyway."

Cosette smiled, then grew thoughtful again. "I _thought_ it really happened," she said again, "a long time ago, but I wasn't certain. Sometimes I don't – sometimes it's like I don't feel certain of _anything_, Papa."

"Cosette, you know that I love you, don't you?"

"Yes, Papa." She was still sniffling, but the immediacy of her answer comforted him. She didn't hesitate. She _knew_ that he loved her.

"Feel certain of that, then," he said, stroking her hair. "Whenever you don't feel certain of anything else in the world, remember I love you, and feel certain of that."

Cosette reached for his hand and squeezed it in hers. "Always," she whispered.

**FIN**


End file.
